It chanced that late, one summer's gloaming,
The lady and the youth were roaming,
In converse close of those and these,
Beneath a long arcade of trees.

Tall trunks stood up on left and right,
Like columns in the gloom of night,
Breezeless and voiceless; and on high,

Where those eternal pillars ended,

The silent boughs so closely blended
Their mirk, unstirring majesty,
That superstition well might run

To wander there from twelve to one,
And call strange shapes from heaven or hell
Of cowl and candle, book and bell,

And kneel as in the vaulted aisle
Of some time-honoured Gothic pile,
To pay her weary worship there
Of counted beads, and pattered prayer.

Clotilda had, for once, the vapours,
their tapers,
She said that she was very weary—
She liked the place, it was so dreary,-
The dew was down on grass and flower,

And when the stars lit up

'Twas very wet,-'twas very wrong,

But she must rest for half an hour,
And listen to another song.

Then many a tale did Vidal tell

Of warrior's spear, and wizard's spell;
How that Sir Brian le Bleu had been
Cup-bearer to a fairy queen;
And how that a hundred years did pass,
And left his brow as smooth as glass ;
Time on his form marked no decay,
He stole not a single charm away,

He could not blight

That eye of light,

Nor turn those raven ringlets gray.

But Brian's love for a mortal maid,

Was written and read in a magic sign, When Brian slipped on the moonlight glade, And spilled the fairy's odorous wine; And she dipped her fingers in the can,

And sprinkled him with seven sprinkles, And he went from her presence a weary man, A withering lump of rheum and wrinkles.

And how that Satan made a bond
With Armonell of Trebizond,-

A bond that was written at first in tears,
And torn at last in laughter,-
To be his slave for a thousand years,
And his sovereign ever after.

And oh! those years, they fleeted fast,
And a single year remained at last,
A year for crouching and for crying,
Between his frolic and his frying.

"Toil yet another toil," quoth he, "Or else thy prey I will not be,

Come hither, come hither, servant mine,

And call me back

The faded track

Of years nine hundred and ninety-nine!"
And Satan hied to his home again

On the wings of a blasting hurricane,

And left old Armonell to die,

And sleep in the odour of sanctity.

In mockery of the Minstrel's skill
The Lady's brow grew darker still;

"Good Vidal,"-as she spoke she leant So wildly o'er the instrument That wondering Vidal started back, For fear the strings should go to wrack,"Good Vidal, I have read and heard

Of many a haunted heath and dell, Where potency of wand or word,

Or chanted rhyme, or written spell, Hath burst, in such an hour as this,

The cerements of the rotting tomb, And waked from woe, or torn from bliss, The heritors of chill and gloom, Until they walked upon the earth, Unshrouded, in a ghastly mirth,

And frightened men with soundless cries, And hueless cheeks, and rayless eyes.

I know a rhyme, and-ghosts forsooth!
I used to sing it in my youth;

'Twas taught me,-curse my foolish vanity!
By an old wizard,-stark insanity!
Who came from Tunis,-'tis the hock!
At a great age and-twelve o'clock!
He wore,-Oh Lord!—a painted girdle,
For which they burnt him on a hurdle;
He had a charm, but-what the deuce!
It was'nt of the slightest use;

There's not a single ghost that cares
For

-mercy on me! how she stares!"
And then again he sate him down,
For fiercer fell Clotilda's frown,
And played, abominably ill,
And horribly against his will.

"Spirits, that walk and wail to-night,
I feel, I feel that ye are near;

There is a mist upon my sight,

There is a murmur in mine ear,

And a dark, dark dread

Of the lonely dead,

Creeps through the whispering atmosphere!

"Ye hover o'er the hoary trees,

And the old oaks stand bereft and bare;

Ye hover o'er the moonlight seas,

And the ban-dog shivers in silence there.

"Come hither to me upon your cloud,
And tell me of your bliss or pain,
And let me see your shadowy shroud,
And colourless lip, and bloodless vein;
Where do ye dwell,

In heaven or hell,

And why do ye wander on earth again?

"Tell to me where and how ye died,
Fell ye in darkness, or fell ye in day,
On lorn hill-side, or roaring tide,

In gorgeous feast, or rushing fray?
By bowl or blow,

From friend or foe,

Hurried your angry souls away?

"Mute ye come, and mute ye pass,

Your tale untold, your shrift unshriven;
But ye have blighted the pale grass,

And scared the ghastly stars from heaven;
And guilt hath known

Your voiceless moan,

And felt that the blood is unforgiven!"

He paused; for silently and slow

The lady left his side ;

It seemed her blood had ceased to flow,

For her cheek was as white as the morning snow,
And the light of her eyes had died.

She gazed upon some form of fright,-
But it was not seen of Vidal's sight;

She drank some sound of hate or fear,

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But it was not heard of Vidal's ear;
"Look! look!" she said; and Vidal spoke-
"Why! zounds! it's nothing but an oak!"

"Valence!" she muttered, "I will rise;

Ay! turn not those dead orbs on mine; Fearless to-night are these worn eyes,

And nerveless is that arm of thine. Thrice hast thou fleeted o'er my path;

And I would hear thy dull lips say,

Is it in sorrow, or in wrath,

That thou dost haunt my lonely way? Ay! frown not! heaven may blast me now, In this dark hour, in this cold spot;

And then-I can but be as thou,

And hate thee still, and fear thee not!"